The Knitting Needles Cast A Glow
by LyssaGranger
Summary: [RHr OneShot] They sit in the common room, the fire on their faces. And he tells her something she isn't quite sure she wanted to hear. But she understands. She always does.


Disclaimer: I've been trying for years to trade JKR my most worldly possessions (3 cents, the piece of paper I jotted this idea on, and a small, pocket sized picture of Ron and Hermione posted to my wall in front of my laptop) but she still wont give me the rights to Harry Potter!

A/N: I really liked writing this one. I hope it's well liked.

**The Knitting Needles Cast A Glow**

The Gryffindor common room was cast in a quiet glow of harsh red and orange from the fire cackling by the overstuffed sofas off to the side of the tower. As the night wore on the room was slowly abandoned by the tired students, leaving the foursome sitting alone on the cushions around the fire. Harry and Ginny had been lounging lazily on the double seater in front of the small table in the center. The two had been discussing the essay Harry had been writing for potions class, though they'd been laughing and arguing friendly about whether it _was_, in fact, two beetle wings or three; Harry completely disregarding his quill in his attempt to convince Ginny that he knew what he was talking about. A roll of the eyes from her.

Hermione, who had stayed quiet throughout the conversation, despite knowing that they were _both_ wrong - it was only one beetle wing - had been sitting in the armchair beside the two seater, Crookshankes curled around her legs, batting at the ball of yarn which she was using for her knitting. She had been doing her best to keep from correcting them as they bantered lightly, nearly flirting over the poor insect's wings.

Ron had been sitting, sprawled out on the couch opposite the table watching Hermione's hypnotic motions with the knitting needles, knowing full well how hard it was for her to keep from interrupting his sister and Harry's conversation with the right answer, and doing his best to keep the smile from his lips.

The common room had been nearly empty by then and the two pairs had been sitting around the fire for most of the evening. A short while after the last Gryffindor had retreated to their dormitory Harry and Ginny had followed suit, once they both agreed to disagree on the beetle wings, leaving Ron and Hermione alone in front of the crackling fire.

They sat in silence, Hermione knitting a horribly ugly burgundy scarf for her latest S.P.E.W ploy to free the house elves while Ron watched with blank eyes. She broke the quiet only once, murmuring a hushed 'It's good to be back at Hogwarts, I hardly had anytime over the summer, I've fallen behind on my knitting.' And again the silence surrounded them. He didn't reply and she didn't mind. He was thinking about something, she could tell. His eyes were dark and she could see he was hypnotized by the slow motion of the needles in the firelight.

Finally, though, he lost track of time - unsure how long they'd been sitting there - tired of the quiet (it was too quiet) and she shifted in the armchair, stiff and tired from the sitting. Her leg had long since fallen asleep.

She kept up her knitting as she spoke aloud what she'd been thinking about since the beetle wing conversation between her two close friends. 'I can't believe they didn't last,' she didn't bother mentioning who "they" were, she wasn't quite sure if he was even listening, and anyway, she hadn't really been speaking to him, it was more just a soft spoken thought voiced aloud to an empty room, meant to die away after it had left her lips. She continued, 'I can't really understand why he broke it off. I don't agree with his reasoning, it didn't seem necessary.'

Her words hung in the air for a few silent moments before falling away. He said nothing. She didn't expect him to and she kept up her knitting, determined to change the world one ugly scarf at a time. He watched, his eyes never wavering from the needles which cast a glow from the firelight and he wouldn't (couldn't) tear his gaze from them as they moved in slow motions as she guided them around the yarn. The fire painted them orange.

A soft sigh escapes her lips and he notices because he always notices. His eyes are still watching the needles as he speaks up, now, answering the words she hadn't expected an answer to. 'What's the point?' he mutters softly, firelight reflected in his eyes, too.

She looks up, questioning in her light brown ones but she doesn't ask, doesn't reply - not this time. And she drops her gaze again, back down to the scarf in her lap. Crookshanks toys with the ball of yarn beside him; lazily. She keeps knitting. It's almost therapeutic. Almost.

He's not done, not yet. 'What's the point in going to war with a new relationship?' a pause, and then, 'you might not come back to see how it ends. No point,' he whispered.

She doesn't look back up, but she hears him and he knows it. He keeps watching, her fingers holding the yarn lightly, wrapping them and twisting them in a pattern he can't quite understand. But then again, she's something he doesn't quite understand. And that's okay.

The silence cradles them and the fire warms them. A moment passes. Then another. And she speaks.

'Ron?' she looks up, tearing her eyes away from the burgundy, but his eyes stay put, watching, even though she's stopped the hypnotic motion. He's listening. 'Are you saying,' a quiver in her voice. She's furious, 'that, even if you liked a girl you wouldn't say anything to her? Even if you made her wait _years_ to hear it? All because it's "pointless to start a new relationship"?'

He doesn't move, doesn't speak, but he hears her. There's a shine in his eyes now, that wasn't there before and he raises his head just a little and now he's looking at her face. It's perfect because she is. And he smirks just a little smirk - a pull of the lips, nothing more. But before she can meet his eyes he's dropped his gaze back to her lap because she's stopped knitting and the yarn is sitting in a small pool, clutched in her tiny hands.

'That's exactly what I'm saying, Hermione,' he mumbles quietly and she has to lean forward just a bit, if she wants to hear him. She does.

'What?' she breathes in disbelief, dropping her needles. Crookshanks senses the mood and shuffles closer to her leg.

There's a silence again, and she's wondering if she remembers what it was like when they use to fight. The loud sting of voices cluttering the air. She doesn't think she remembers. She wishes she does.

'I wouldn't want,' he pauses, weighing his words heavily, 'to go into this war with a girl on my mind because,' another pause, and then, 'if the time comes for me to step between Harry and Voldemort ... I might think twice about it. We can't afford that.' Quiet. 'I'm sorry, Hermione.' A whisper.

And everything seems to freeze in time for just a moment and the fire casts an eerie glow. Red tossed over the carpet, staining it. Their eyes flicker, for a moment, and meet. She sees something in his eyes and she understands. She doesn't want to. But she does. And then she breathes and motion returns to the room as she picks up her knitting and he goes back to watching. Because he can't take his eyes off her. It's his punishment for waiting and now he watches and wonders what could have been.


End file.
